


Die Like Saintly Songs

by Nenalata



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst and Tragedy, Derogatory Language, Except it's not happy and fun it's just intense, Fighting As Foreplay, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Gender-Neutral My Unit | Byleth, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, I Mean Something To That Effect But It's Def In The Ballpark Range Of Those Words, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Masturbation, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), One-Sided Sylvain/Byleth, Other, Self-Hatred, Sexualized Non-Con Violence Fantasy, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Suicidal Thoughts, This isn't a rapefic, Unrequited, like just a lot of angst okay, whatever that means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21830578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: They're all going to die tomorrow.The Kingdom may be the Goddess’s chosen, but the Empire has theGoddess, and the Goddess has chosen death for her people. What’s one saint in the face of an Emperor who fears no deity, not even the one leading her army?Sylvain never gets what he wants. And Sylvain doesn't want to die.Or:Sylvain didn't get recruited to the Black Eagles, and he knows the Professor didn't wanthim.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 20
Kudos: 101





	Die Like Saintly Songs

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【中文翻译】Die Like Saintly Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792949) by [Reio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reio/pseuds/Reio)



Sylvain wants to laugh when Dimitri tells them they march to the Tailtean Plains on the morrow. It’s symbolic and they all know it, but still the King says it: “It will be a symbol for the people to see the hands of time turn back, to move forward again as they should. To see the Goddess’s chosen people once again prevail over unjust and hateful forces. To triumph against overwhelming odds.”

Sylvain wants to laugh, because he knows they are all going to die.

The Kingdom may be the Goddess’s chosen, but the Empire has the _Goddess_ , and the Goddess has chosen death for her people. What’s one saint in the face of an Emperor who fears no deity, not even the one leading her army?

Sylvain’s heard Claude’s theories about who and what their old beloved Professor is. He’d humored the guy long enough to agree the Professor had some unearthly quality to them, but he’d drawn the line at _deity_. But now Rhea’s insistence she’s Seiros incarnate, that she’s been hiding who she is for as long as the Church has existed…That only exacerbates Sylvain’s confidence that Claude was right all along. He almost feels like he needs to apologize to Claude’s ghost, to say _I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone, I’m sorry you thought I would understand and even though I did, I didn’t understand enough_.

Claude’s dead now. Sylvain hopes he died with a smile, highly doubts that hope came true.

So when Sylvain hears one of his oldest friends talk of _symbols_ and _forward_ and _triumph_ , he wants to laugh. And he doesn’t. Because Sylvain never gets what he wants.

The war council concludes. The remaining advisors scatter in different directions. Out of habit, Sylvain lingers by the door for a split second too long before he remembers there’s no one to wait for.

There’s still a _chance_ Felix survived the battle at Arianrhod. Not a good one, but a chance.

Once, not even that long ago, Felix had surprised Sylvain by accepting his perfunctory invitation to grab a drink and a girl or two. They’d sat together in a deceptively raucous tavern, and three flagons of ale in, Felix had quietly asked Sylvain, so quietly he could almost pretend no words had come out, if Sylvain really thought they could survive.

“I mean,” Sylvain had laughed after a swallow of sour ale, “I’ll keep fighting like I want to die, I guess. Worked so far, right?”

Felix, however, had gotten angry: “Don’t joke right now. I asked you seriously.” Angry, but in the worst way Felix could have gotten angry: sharp but soft. Quiet. Frightened. “I’m not going to die with you.”

Sylvain had felt the words like a punch to the teeth. The grin on his lips had faded, ghostlike. Felix’s fingers on his flagon had trembled, and Sylvain had stared at them, like the sight would anchor him. “I really…I don’t really want to die,” he’d said to his flagon, cheerful cacophony of the tavern nearly drowning out the words.

Nearly drowning out Felix’s: “I know you don’t.”

Sylvain never gets what he wants. So he doesn’t laugh when Dimitri gives his motivational speech.

And he doesn’t want to die.

* * *

Dedue stops him in the hallway on the way back from training. Sylvain hasn’t bathed yet—maybe he won’t—and the Lance of Ruin dangles carelessly in one hand. Neither of these facts keep Dedue from saying to his face, “You cannot kill yourself. It will destroy His Majesty.”

The laugh that erupts from Sylvain’s chest startles him. Not Dedue, apparently; he remains stoic and frowning even as the manic sound bounces around the corridor walls. “Not tonight, at any rate.” He hefts the lance and glances past the hulking man meaningfully. Dedue doesn’t budge.

Sylvain could go around him. Dedue’s one of the taller soldiers and probably the tallest general, and while his width’s a third his height, Fhirdiad castles are built for invasion. For slipping past enemies to flee, to fight, to stab in the back. But now, Sylvain suspects it’d be rude to take advantage of that.

“Or tomorrow. You trained too hard tonight. How can you lead your House troops if you injure yourself well before the battle?”

He got what he wanted, Sylvain realizes. He’d laughed. Not _how_ he’d wanted to, or when, or why…But _what_.

Sylvain’s perfected his disarming, disingenuous smile over the years. He flashes it now. “You’re right, as always. I’ll get a hot bath going, and I won’t even look for company with it.”

“Cold water after. Your muscles will suffer otherwise.”

He nods, makes his expression as earnest and dismissive as possible. “You know best, General.”

Dedue’s satisfied with the response. He knows Sylvain will listen. But maybe he’ll see past the mask, past the expression and the smile and the smirk, maybe he’ll listen to the words and the intent but listen also to the _truth_ that’s not quite there—

“That’s what His Majesty tells me.” There’s something not quite _true_ in Dedue’s expression, either. “Get some sleep.”

“You too.”

They pass each other, finally. Opposite directions in a stone corridor meant for fighting, not acquiescence.

Dedue hadn’t listened. So Sylvain hadn’t, either.

* * *

The water’s scalding hot. Sylvain will pour freezing water over his head after he’s done; he’s got a bucket waiting by the tub for just that purpose. His muscles thank him for the heat now, and he knows they’ll complain for the split instant that icy splash hits them, but in the morning, he’ll be fit, mended, healthy, ready to fight, ready to—

He can’t kill himself because it would destroy His Majesty.

The laugh won’t come again. One and done.

“Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” Sylvain says to his knees sticking out of the tub. Always too small. Everything in this place is made for people who take up less space. “I’m not the one who’ll kill me.”

There have been _so many_ opportunities. For others to finish him off.

Opportunities like:

“Let’s go on a walk,” his big brother had suggested with a too-bright smile, cold like the air outside. It had been snowy, thick with ice like Sylvain had never seen in his seven years of life, and Sylvain _knew_ Miklan hadn’t wanted to _go on a walk_ with only his little, inconvenient brother for companionship, even _Sylvain_ had known and didn’t want to, didn’t want to, but—that stupid, hopeful part of him that never quite died had also wanted his brother, _a_ brother, any brother, and he’d said yes.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he had wanted to tell Miklan when the guards finally found him wandering through frozen fields, or later, when he’d been _stupid_ and had wanted his brother again and had gotten the slippery inside of a well instead. But Miklan had never been around to hear apologies, and only a few years after Sylvain had crawled out of that well, Miklan hadn’t been around at all.

Opportunities like:

“You knocked her up! You knocked up my fucking sister!” the girl’s brother had screamed, whites of his eyes wild and nostrils flaring like a horse— _like a studhorse_ —and Sylvain had wanted to vomit.

“I didn’t,” he’d insisted, more of a desperate wish than a false insistence. “I couldn’t have.”

He could have.

“He didn’t!” the tearful girl had sobbed, trying without success to tug her brother out of the stable where he’d found them, before Sylvain had _known_. “I got rid of it, he didn’t, it’s not true anymore—”

Sylvain had bolted. Shoved past him, past _her_ , past their—their—their Crestless, peasant bodies, their fury and pain, their _lies_. The girl had cried out, the brother had roared, and Sylvain’s one-footstep-and-one-bootstep had crunched on dead leaves, sunk into tilled soil.

Sometimes, he wonders how it would have felt to feel a pitchfork between his ribs, puncturing the sensitive muscle of his heart.

Opportunities like:

“ _I’m gonna need you to move_!” Sylvain had shouted, rage fueling his blood and directing the swing of his lance. Flames rippled down his gauntlet, but they were his own, magic licking the steel of his weapon like an extra assurance of the sniper’s demise.

He’d hardly waited to hear the soldier’s death rattle. Hadn’t needed to: his horse’s hooves had clomped over the fallen form to Ingrid, crumpled on her side in the dust, pegasus nowhere in sight. Arrows had decorated her arm like the jewelry she’d never liked to wear.

Sylvain had shoved the palm of his hand on the skin between her jaw and her neck, willing white magic to do its job while battle raged on. The faintest pulse had throbbed beneath his fingers, and he’d moved to her injured arm. “Come on, take it,” he’d snarled at her, baring his teeth like he could intimidate life back into her. “Take it, you stupid stubborn—stubborn _bitch_ , you can’t do this to me now! I need you to—I won’t let you! I can’t, I don’t _want_ you to—”

It had only been because a shadow had fallen over Luín that Sylvain had known to reach back, fingers like claws, and set the assassin aflame. Ashes had blown over Ingrid’s once-pristine white armor.

And here Sylvain is, in a gilded palace tub, submerged in soothing scalding water, feeling his body gratefully soak up all the convalescence something as simple as a bath can provide.

Sylvain rises and yanks the bucket from the floor with enough force water sloshes over the side. He wants to scream when he upturns it over his head. He doesn’t. The night watch has enough to worry about.

A liquid icy trail follows him from the washroom to his quarters, from exquisite tile to polished wood to luxurious rug. No point in worrying about slipping, about mildew. After tomorrow, no one will bother to mop up anything but blood.

What if that’s the thing that kills him in the morning, though? Sylvain grins to himself. It cracks his dry lips. What if, though, that’s what keeps him from dragging fearful Gautier knights to battle? Lazy, unmotivated bathwater cooled and invisible on washroom tiles from a morose night before.

The thought’s amusing for a split second, but the mirth threatening the corners of his mouth fades fast. Sylvain grabs a shirt and wipes it all up.

His Majesty will be destroyed if Sylvain kills himself, after all. No matter how ridiculous a way to go it would be.

Besides.

It’s the _Professor_ who’ll kill him, anyway.

* * *

It’s late.

Not too late Sylvain will hate himself in the morning, but late enough he knows he’ll roll out of bed maybe tardier than is appropriate.

His window clicks with the sound of faint, spitting rain on the glass. Sylvain’s in a sleep shirt and not much else, under suddenly-suffocating covers. He’s peeled them off his body more and more as the minutes have ticked past midnight, because he’s always hated the heat but never so much as tonight.

Finally, Sylvain sits up with a sigh more growl than whisper. He knows what’s keeping him up, and it’s not fear.

It’s _anticipation_.

The good kind. Anticipation the way Castle Fraldarius came into sight those soft summers and he could pretend he saw Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix’s impatient expressions peering out those arrow slits for windows. Anticipation the way he’d sweated up the stairs of the dais where his brother’s scarred and scowling face awaited him. Anticipation the way his breath caught when he first saw the Professor’s smile, two months before the world tore apart.

Sylvain’s hard.

It’s sick how quickly he fumbles for the oil on his travel trunk. Sylvain doesn’t even hate himself for the relieved shudder he can’t control when he fists his now-slick cock in his hand. Incorrigible, insatiable, utterly disappointing, useless. No one’s around to call him that, and if they were, Sylvain wouldn’t care. He’d encourage it. Savor it. _Again, tell me again_ , he’d say, _tell me you’re alive_.

He slows his frantic hand. Idle, fleeting touches. Sensitive skin rolling up, thumb brushing his slit, down again with oil, precum, _wet_ , _hot_ , like sex, like blood.

“ _Fuck_.”

The Professor’d been just the same as his friends, in a way. Sylvain doesn’t care what he does to those girls. Sylvain is a jerk. Cynical. A heartbreaker. Untrustworthy, can’t handle a girl’s heart, how can the Professor expect him to handle a human heart, something breakable for real, forever?

_You can’t_ , Sylvain wishes he’d said back then. Back when he’d asked to join the Black Eagles, because he’d meant it when he’d said he thought he could learn a lot from them. But he’d also meant it when he’d said he felt the Professor would make a _fascinating_ person to study. He’d meant the leer. The bite to his smile. The way he’d loomed over their shorter frame, threatening, despite how the Professor wasn’t much taller or shorter than many of his other friends.

Had meant the—

“ _Fuck, ah, f_ —”

—the flirting, the hating, the too-loud jokes when he knew the Professor was in earshot.

Why had he thought he’d ever had a chance?

“You’d be a better soldier,” the Professor had said, “if anyone could trust you to watch their back to check more than how their armor fit.”

Said without a trace of smile, hardly any inflection in their voice.

Sylvain had wanted to grab their shoulders, shove them against the Goddess Tower, whisper in their ear: _Well,_ you _can trust me to do both._

“Would you look at that,” he’d said instead—

“ _Fuck_.” He slicks himself up with more oil. The bottle’s half-empty, but what does that matter if he’s not coming back? Sylvain tightens his grip around the base of his cock and takes a deep, grounding breath. When he starts up again, he’s too fast anyway. He slows down, _slows_ even though it feels like it’ll kill him if he stops, but somehow, he manages. This, at least, has to last.

“Would you look at that. We’re the only two people here.” Sylvain had gotten closer, expecting the Professor to step _back_ , but no. They’d held their ground, and it pissed him off. He’d wanted, he wants to make them _run_.

What would have worked?

“I keep thinking about it,” he’d said. “You, me, and our bodies, no Crests between us.”

_I keep thinking about it. I want to rip the Goddess from your heart. I want to drain the Ten Elites from my blood._

Sylvain’s going to die tomorrow.

He slows _down_.

“You want me to fuck you? I can’t even trust you.”

“You can trust me. What’s not to trust?”

Lies taste good on Sylvain’s tongue. He’s always thought so. So has everyone else who’s felt it trace their lips.

“You’re a good student. You’ve never fooled me.”

He’d laughed, because it was such a leading statement that he _had_ to give the Professor the leading question. “What do you mean?”

“You always ask questions you already know the answer to.”

_I want to fuck the answers from your throat_ , Sylvain hadn’t said. _I want to deny the questions you won’t ask me, chase your silent tongue with my cum._

White-hot, shivering pleasure, but, _oh, thank all four Saints_ , Sylvain doesn’t come. His pace is good. Slow. Drawn-out. He’s not sure if he wants _it_ to be quick when it finally happens, finishes, ends.

“Well, it’s not like I can act any different, huh? I’ve been me my whole life. It’s gotten me good things so far.” He’d winked, and the Professor’s expression had gone impossibly blanker.

“Then why are you here alone?”

_I want you to forget what it’s like to speak, sing, pray, curse. I want to make sure the only thing you remember is my cock inside you, making you feel—feel—_

_Making you_ feel.

_You monster._

“You monster,” Sylvain had said, hadn’t meant to say, had scrambled to wink the words away. “Really know how to hit a guy where it hurts, don’t you?”

“I’m a mercenary. It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

It had been humor, Sylvain is still sure it had been even today. A joke. As close to an apology as he’ll ever get.

Tight around the base again. He won’t come yet. He hasn’t even gotten to the good part, the part he really wants.

“And you’re a Professor, too. Maybe I can learn something from you, after all.” _Even though—_ Sylvain hadn’t said it, not exactly, but maybe a little: “You know, I’ve never regretted any way I’ve acted in the past ‘til now. When you turned me down.”

The Professor’s lips had quirked, and Sylvain’s heart had stuttered, hoping, hoping for a smile directed his way. “So you’ll change? Now I’m on the receiving end of your empty promises, am I?”

_Sylvain had promised nothing._

“I’ll prove it to you,” he’d sworn, instead of saying what he’d wanted.

The _smile_ , almost a full smile. “I’m looking forward to it—”

Sylvain’s looking forward to tomorrow. That lovely symbol of a battle and—“ _Fuck_!”

The _good_ part.

In school, there had been an interhouse lance tournament. Manuela had clutched her hands to her ample chest watching her students, which would have been more distracting if Sylvain hadn’t felt the Professor’s—the _real_ one’s—eyes watching him the entire time.

_Open wide, open your eyes_. _Watch what you missed_. Sylvain swung and Ferdinand fell. The tournament ended and Dimitri took too long giving him his prize. The Black Eagles had departed with their Professor by the time Dimitri had finished congratulating him.

And tomorrow…

Tomorrow, Sylvain wants the Professor to taste his lance.

Maybe for real. Maybe sharp steel on their tongue, carved on their lips, another smile Sylvain never earned.

“Oh fuck oh fuck stop just stop—” Sylvain hisses, and while he does keep control, squeeze, stop for a heartbeat, he starts up again faster than he has.

More oil. His cock doesn’t need it, but Sylvain needs the _feel_.

In a roiling mass of bodies making bodies, Sylvain’ll catch the sight of a glowing spine in slender hands. But no, he won’t follow it. He’ll just see it, red and bonelike in the distance, until it’s _not_ distant, until the Professor’s bloodied and panting in front of him, Sword of the Creator throbbing in their clenched fists.

What will their clothes look like? The same fitted mercenary gear that always made Sylvain salivate from across the courtyard? Something different, something traitorous and Imperial? Impractical robes for casting holy magic, shredded beyond usefulness and decency?

Sylvain’ll say something first. The Professor may have cut a path to him, but the path ends here, with _him_ , and Sylvain will be the one to let them know.

What will he say?

He’s sweating. Sylvain hates the heat, being hot. He lets go of his desperate, dripping cock and drops to his knees on the cold wooden floors.

One knee flinches away from freezing bathwater. He’d missed cleaning a few puddles earlier. Sylvain leans into it, hunched over, letting his sleep shirt slide down his shoulders.

Last of the oil now. The empty glass bottle rolls along the floor. Sylvain hears its solid _clunk_ against some piece of furniture he doesn’t care about and speeds up, up _up_ up, he can last if he’s careful, he can go fast if he’s cold, if he focuses on the memory and the imagined future and playing pretend.

_Professor!_ Cheerful. Licking his lips, the Lance of Ruin heavy and hungry in his grip. _Five years is a long time, huh? Let’s raise a glass, commemorate the occasion._

Boot to the chest, grabbing their hair, shove them down. What will he say?

_Drink up, Professor. Last thing you’ll taste is me, your blood, bloodied dirt, the country you made_. _Let’s commemorate your death with this heady mix—_

“This—” Sylvain hisses, stops, shudders, he can’t stop, it’s disgusting, he’s _vile_ and he loves every hot slick stroke his palm slides along his shaft, punishing himself. The best sins against the worst kind of deity. 

_Professor, I really gotta admit something_. Somber with a smile. Licking the blood from his teeth, Crest buzzing beneath his skin and pretending he can control it. _I finally regret my behavior in the past. I was gonna prove it to you, you know. But now I get to kill you._

Tip of the Lance of Ruin stabbed through their boot, grasping their neck, force their mouth open with his lips. What will he feel?

_I was going to woo you. Make a proper attempt. Fresh flowers, picnic baskets, clean sheets. How’s this for a first kiss? Don’t cut yourself on my teeth. I don’t want your blood in my mouth._

Sylvain stops. Really stops this time, hand falling slack on his thigh. His aching cock hasn’t caught up with his sudden revulsion yet, still twitches rock-hard against his stomach when his fingers brush it. Some sensation uglier than before churns in his gut.

He’s so much harder now. Painfully so.

_You’re the only one for me, you know._

Sylvain gasps a curse, collapses on the floor, and fucks his hand like—

_I’ve broken a lot of hearts since you saw me last, by the way. Not all of them girls, either. Women, sure._

_They were soldiers._

_What about you?_

_What about you, Professor_? _How many hearts have you shredded to pieces_?

Sylvain will get what he deserves.

Sylvain doesn’t want to die, but he knows he will, and even if he never, ever gets what he wants, only what he deserves…

The Professor deserves to kill him. He owes them that much, at least for _this_ , if he owes them anything.

_You deserve this, you know_. Blue flags torn to ribbons at his feet. Red banners crushed and filthy underfoot. Arrows falling harmlessly from his pauldrons, arrowheads sticking out of the bloodied gaps in his greaves. _I hope you enjoy it, Professor. I know I will_.

_I have nothing to say to you._ Bruised and bleeding collarbones under robes ripped beyond recognition. A glare, not a smile, and Sylvain’s never seen something so delicious until now. A black eye’s forming under their green and glowing eye, and Sylvain doesn’t have time to register the Crest of Flames flashing before the Professor raises their sword and howls, _Hurry up and die already_.

The Lance of Ruin parries the Goddess’s bones with ease.

_Claude was right about you_ , Sylvain can bite out through a grin he almost means. _You really are a monster_. _You’re the demon, not Rhea_.

Ashes from unseen mages’ poorly-aimed spells blow through the Professor’s unnatural hair. _You know nothing about me_. Sylvain shoves, the Professor falls, and now he’s crouched over them in the mud. He presses the Lance of Ruin’s shaft under their jaw, against their neck.

_I don’t want to know a single damned thing except how well you_ —

How well they take his cock.

Sylvain’s hips chase after his hand, snapping against his palm with loud, lewd sounds.

How well they die.

Sylvain’s breaths come out in desperate huffs, heavy and deep and panting. He hasn’t heard himself like this in years—a kid fumbling around with his first real lover in the dark of a lonely room.

_I don’t want to know a single damned thing except how well you die._

The Professor will have a weapon on them besides their spells and their Sword. Sylvain knows this and will know it tomorrow. _Come on, babe._ And that’ll do it, that’ll be what makes the Professor’s eyes light up with rage, because the way Sylvain talks and hurts and flirts and walks has always _enraged_ them. Sylvain will let them draw the knife. He’ll smile so that the Professor will _know_ he’s letting them.

“Oh fuck oh shit oh Go—fucking hell, you—”

The Professor will sink the dagger into the weakest part of Sylvain’s armor, and Sylvain, with one hard pull, will slice their throat.

“Fucking _kill_ —kill me, I’ll kill y—you—”

His Relic will _love_ that. The Sword of the Creator will—it’ll—he has no idea, but if it’s anything like the Lance of Ruin, which it isn’t—

Hot, wet, tears stinging his eyes like wine in a wound.

_This is a sacred place_. _Didn’t anybody ever tell you what happens if you exchange vows here_?

Sylvain’ll sink deeper into them, sharp, unholy, he’ll want to scream but no one’s ever cared what he wants and thank the Goddess—thank the Saints that for once, for _once_ what he truly desires is _this_ : the Professor, struggling beneath him, stabbing meaningless steel through each chink in his armor, past the metal and leather and skin and even bone. Killing him until they go limp beneath Sylvain’s heavy body.

“Fuck!” He comes so hard it _hurts_ , thick strands of his useless, spent fury painting white lines on the cobalt rug. His hands are shaking, slippery with oil, sweat, and sticky with cum. Sylvain grinds into it anyway, forcing more, more, more out of himself.

_I’m relieved to find you here alone. You’re usually so popular._

“I’m going to die,” Sylvain gasps. He’s shivering, cold under his sweat. “I’m going to die tomorrow.”

One last pump on his overly-sensitive cock. Why not? Tears and semen are warm, at least. So is blood.

_I bet it’s not just passionate lovers who swear vows here. Passion doesn’t only mean love, you know_?

“I don’t want to die. I don’t, I knew I would die this way, I don’t…”

_I know, Sylvain. You don’t need to give_ me _a lesson on—_

_I know too, Professor. But you said I always ask questions I already know._

He can’t cry. He can’t keep crying. If he cries like this, he’ll dry up even more. From his mouth to his heart to his soul to his cock and back again. Sylvain doesn’t want to cry.

“I never get what I—”

Sylvain folds his arms over his knees, bites the back of his wrist, and sobs against the mess his skin has become.

_I can prove this much to you, can’t I_?

“I don’t want to die.”

_Passion means suffering._

_I swear to make us suffer._


End file.
